


If this isn't tenderness--

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Multi, OT5, Potential Consequences Thereof, Recreational Drug Use, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a hand in Skov’s shorts. In the pocket, to be precise, thumb tucked into the crease of his hipbone and fingers wrapped around his thigh. A mouth skates across his ear. There is an arm, attached to the hand, between his back and the surface he’s crumpled on; there is a length of lean and warm body sandwiched against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If this isn't tenderness--

There’s a hand in Skov’s shorts. In the pocket, to be precise, thumb tucked into the crease of his hipbone and fingers wrapped around his thigh. A mouth skates across his ear. There is an arm, attached to the hand, between his back and the surface he’s crumpled on; there is a length of lean and warm body sandwiched against him. These points orient him as he swims back into himself, groaning feebly. He doesn’t open his eyes. The grip on his thigh tightens, grounding him harder as a participant part of his own flesh. It’s singing, all that skin and muscle and bone, vibrating with the sharpest and most unpleasant euphoria he’s ever experienced.

It’s unclear if he’s been unconscious or just – not there.

“There you go,” and that’s Kavinsky, speaking from in front of him somewhere. “See, he’s fine.”

He squints, eyes hideously dry, into the dimness of the basement theater. Kavinsky is pacing, Jiang is sleeping in a pile in the corner, and that leaves two options for his current seatmate. He makes an attempt to turn his head and the already-faded colors swim.

“Gonna puke,” he gets out before he pitches sideways, slamming his face against the arm of the theater seat. He retches; nothing comes up but spit and bitterness. He thinks about crying, distantly. His nerve ending are all on fire.

“Throw that shit away, bury it, I don’t care,” Swan says over his head, low and tense and unmistakably furious. “But this is fucked up, _you_ fucked it up.”

“Christ,” Skov moans, kicking a little, pushing himself away and onto the floor. He lays flat on the soft carpet, then starts halfheartedly wriggling out of his shirt. There’s too much contact. He wishes he weren’t aware of it.

Kavinsky sits next to him, then, puts a hand in his hair and _pulls_.

The starburst of pain-delight stills him, stops his breath and his heart and every inch of that sensation flows into the unbearable perfect ache of his scalp. Kavinsky pulls a little harder, lifting his chin up, and there it is: there are tears. His face is wet.

“I got it close, though,” the other boy murmurs, scooting under Skov and cradling his chin in his other hand.

*

The next time Skov wakes up he’s in bed. It’s clearly afternoon, and he’s too tired to move – quite literally too tired to move, too worn, the inside of his head raw static. He would like assistance with breathing or thinking, but the room is empty. There are voices raised in a spectacular argument somewhere else in the house, though. He whimpers. No one is going to hear that, so he gives up and huddles again.   
  
He hurts.

*

A tapping on his cheek wakes him all at once, Kavinsky crouched over him, lips pinched tight and thin. He’s staring at Skov like he can look inside his guts, which isn’t unfamiliar. Skov doesn’t have a fucking thing to give him right now, though. He goes to say as much and only croaks. Kavinsky jostles him into sitting up, keeps the unsettling eye contact while he presses an open bottle of water against his mouth. He sips. Sips again.

After a quarter of the bottle, he manages, “That didn’t go as planned.”

“No shit.”

He remembers volunteering as tribute, his own words, for the clever little capsule filled with glasslike powder Kavinsky had brandished at them; he remembers the initial buildup of sparkling heaving delight in his blood before – blank space.

“Swan’s upset?” he asks though he doesn’t need to.

“Well, he thought he was going to fuck your face while you were rolling your ass off, and then instead he got to watch you throw up for two hours and black out.”

Skov snorts. It’s an unflattering portrait, but: “The fuck were you thinking about when you put those together?”

Kavinsky pauses, cutting a glance at him. “More.”

“Okay, well, less,” Skov says. He leans forward to push his face into the hollow of his shoulder, smelling him unwashed and almost-chemical. “Much less.”

“Drop just as bad?”

“Worse,” Skov admits.

He doesn’t say, I won’t be moving out of this bed unless you move me. He doesn’t have to. Kavinsky nods, shoves him back and tugs him so he’s lying down again – then leaves the room to the dull quiet of evening. He’s back not ten minutes later with the pack in tow, all their motley misdirected attachment narrowed into singular focus: him, him, him tangled in sheets and sweat-drenched and sick. It is rare for their full attention to be directed elsewhere than their miserable king, and the implications scare him. Swan meets his eyes first, while Jiang and Proko crawl onto the end of the bed around his feet. Jiang grips one of his ankles, fingers like hot bands around the cold skin, feeling his sluggish pulse. Kavinsky paces over to the window, pointedly not watching while Swan crowds on to sit against the headboard and nestle Skov against his hip.

After a moment of silence, Swan’s hand comes around to grip the back of his neck, hard. He noses the fabric of his shirt up to breathe against the skin of his side in concession. Proko is the one who speaks, finally, says, “It seemed like you wouldn’t wake up,” flat as a stone dropped in water. Skov shivers. Kavinsky lays behind him lengthwise, knees against the back of his thighs. He bites at his neck and Swan’s fingers indiscriminately and squeezes him around the waist. He touches them all with the thoughtless care of ownership, but: his arms are trembling. Skov thinks, _that’s it then I almost died_.

The rest of them, in this heaving mess of limbs and mistakes, know it. So tonight they’re one animal, one body, holding him together and _together,_ against the mattress and each other, feeling him down to his still-thready pulse. If he had the energy, he’d kiss the first mouth he could reach for it to count on all the rest. It wasn’t an apology; it was.


End file.
